


holy

by onekisstotakewithme



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Body Worship, Charles x Donna, Demi!Charles Emerson Winchester III, F/M, Non-Graphic Smut, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 19:14:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20533151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onekisstotakewithme/pseuds/onekisstotakewithme
Summary: she is a hymn on his lips





	holy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blue_raven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_raven/gifts), [daylight_angel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/daylight_angel/gifts).

Charles, as he soon learns, is easily distracted.

It's something rare, something to be savored, the way his wife glows in the wavering candlelight.

It's enough to make him lose all reason, enough to stop him in his tracks, because she is his.

Until she raises her head, and looks down at him, amusement written into the crinkles of her eyes and the curve of her mouth, and God help him, she is so lovely. "... Charles?"

"Y-Yes?"

"Please," she says, a little breathlessly, softly, "Don't stop."

And Charles leans back to his work, an aching tenderness overflowing as he watches her.

She doesn't seem to breathe, her eyes closed, her skin flushed and pink, looking for all the world like Aphrodite in her chambers, and Charles is the only one who gets to see her like this, gets to admire her, gets to pleasure her.

"Oh Charles, please-" she gasps, "please."

She seems so delicate like this, as though she will crack apart under pressure, pleading so breathlessly.

And their love is the rock upon which he's built his church, her hips the altar at which he gladly offers praise.

"Charles," she breathes, "Oh God, Charles."

And she says his name like a prayer.

And she is a hymn on his lips.

Her head tilts back, exposing the tender flesh of her neck, a purple bruise barely a shadow on her jaw, and he knows all of her secrets, all the ways that melt her.

Her hips jut upwards, her body taut with need, and she's pleading, a barely audible litany of praise.

There is nothing left but them, he thinks, nothing but the heat of her skin against him, and the praises that flow from her lips, and then, the sharp indrawn breath as she comes apart.

No man will ever get the chance to love her as he does, to explore all the hidden temples of their love.

And no one, Charles thinks as he looks up at her in worship, will ever have this holy view.

"Charles," she gasps with the last of her breath, her voice sharp with pleasure.

"You are so lovely," he says, pulling away, his voice soft as a devotional. 

And it's true.

Her curls are plastered to her forehead with perspiration, the sheets clutched in white-knuckled hands, her body radiating heat, and her eyes meet his.

He coaxes her through it, mercilessly tender, until she's tugging at him with shaking hands.

He leaves a kiss, one final offering at the altar, before allowing himself to be pulled upwards.

Her smile is sated, as she stretches languidly, a cat who's gladly feasted on the cream. "Mm. Thank you, darling."

"It was my pleasure," he says, his voice hoarse. "Truly. I love you."

"I love you too," she says, surprised.

She laces her fingers through his, and he kisses her once more in benediction.

And then he's reaching for the abandoned quilt, tugging her in close to him, the taste of her skin still on his lips like a half-finished prayer.

"Don't you want a turn, Chuck?"

How does he explain this profound need, this tender ache below his breastbone, the urge to lose himself in her?

"I want you," he says quietly.

She smiles, "I think I can handle that."

And the quiet space between them is sanctified.


End file.
